Prime Directive
by Clom
Summary: Primes are the biological goldmine for any scientist lucky enough to get their hands on them, but due to their rarity, that's not likely to happen. Especially considering Primes are being hunted for breeding. And of course there are secrets. Alpha/Omega AU
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: HELLO READERS! This be my second account for less … sanitary writings that met my fancy. If you know me as Raxi, I welcome you. If you have no idea who that is, that's good too. Welcome to Clom, sister planet to Raxicoriocofallapatorius. There is nothing under M on this account and that is the way it will remain. :) Thank you for giving it a shot and I really hope you like it.**

**Warning. This is my first M fic although such ideas have been swimming around my head for a while. It probably will only be good through osmosis [as in from reading other peoples good bits] if it's good at all. Let it also be known that I am in no way British or a Linguist so if I get anything wrong, do tell me. Now I won't bore you much longer, so enjoy the first look into the mind of Clom. :3)**

"No one is really sure how the Omega Primes do it. The biology of it is unexplainable and, despite the advances in technology today, very little is actually understood. Basic observation has led us to believe that Omega Primes are the evolutionary result of a deep desire or need to procreate, with or without the aid of Alphas or Alpha Primes.

"The normal Omega differs from the Omega Prime in multiple ways. Firstly, while Omegas can be impregnated by both Alphas and Betas, the fertility rate drops exponentially when it is a Beta. Also, while Omegas are more likely to have multiples, their litters very rarely exceed five. And finally, Omegas carry their litter to full term, like a female Beta would."

John bit back a yawn as the professor droned on and on about the mystery of the Omega Prime. He already knew as much as he could about the Alpha/Beta/Omega differences from independent studies, but the course was required to get his doctorate and _RateMyProfessor_ said that this one assigned the least amount of homework, so John signed up anyways.

And it just confounds him as to why they spend a whole lecture just talking about the Primes. The statistical probability of coming across an Alpha Prime, much less an Omega Prime, was something like 1 in 2.6 million for London, 1 in 33 billion for the whole of the UK, and nigh on impossible in Basildon. But apparently the anomaly of the Primes was just interesting and mysterious enough to dedicate a whole two hours of lecturing to it.

"Alpha Primes, however, are the only ones who can cause the Omega Primes to layer-conceive. Layer-conceiving is when coitus is practiced multiple times over a period of two months and results in several litters at once, each with a different due date. The trick to layer-conceiving is that initially the Alpha Prime has to be in rut and Omega Prime has to be in heat. _And _the Omega Prime must be successfully impregnated during the heat for the uterus to remain capable of further fertilization."

The professor seemed to be picking up speed now, even pulling out diagrams and primary sources depicting the miracle of layer-conceiving. John took the moment to let his head drop to the desk with a solid thunk. The university was well known for its obstetricians, which is what drew John to it in the first place, but they put out some top notch surgeons as well. And with the military now funding his classes, John switched his major to the latter. But that didn't stop him from milking as many classes as he could.

Unfortunately this was John's last semester here in Basildon. About a month into his stay that the university, John decided that Saint Bartholomew's was probably the best place to intern and John just couldn't fund daily trips back and forth, so he chose to transfer. Thankfully they happily accepted him and John was going to move to London in the summer.

"The biggest mystery of the Omega Prime is the accelerated pregnancy. Not only is the full term differ between each birth, but there are also moments in which the Alpha Prime can induce "swelling", a phenomenon that causes the fetus, or more likely fetuses, to rapidly grow for an indeterminate amount of time. It is not known what conditions allow for swelling or what determines how much the fetuses grow during the act and with so few known Primes, no tests have been conducted."

John was actually looking forward to the move, although he'd have to transfer his prescription to a pharmacy in the city. Even then he shouldn't need a refill for a few more months. He had been on suppressants now for about two years, popping one small pill each morning after breakfast. The military required for all Alphas and Omegas to use suppressants while on active duty to minimalize accidents and pregnancies, a law that was put in place after the first suppressants were released just after World War 1. After a few years, the military realised that introducing the drug to the recruits' systems prior to deployment allowed for the body to adjust to the pharmaceutical and the person to add the pill to their daily routine.

"Thanks to modern contraceptives and suppressants, the likelihood of locating a Prime is very low, although it is easier to locate Omega Primes once they are pregnant." Finally stopping long enough to glance at the clock, the professor noticed that he had run over his allotted period by about five minutes. "That's all for today. Class dismissed. See you all next week."

John practically leapt from his seat, hastily snatching up his notebook and pens before dashing out the door. He was planning to go scope out some flats in London that weekend and needed to pack for the trip. Finding a flat close to St. Bart's will be difficult, especially considering his almost nonexistent budget, but was a necessity. Perhaps the military could aid him in this aspect as well.

Deciding to fight for Queen and Country probably was one of the best decisions he's made so far in his life.

* * *

"PISS OFF MYCROFT!" Sherlock shouted as he slammed the door shut behind him. Without pausing, he continued about the room, pulling and throwing all the books from his shelves. He then ripped out all three cameras that his search revealed, dropped them to the ground, and crushed them underfoot. Chest heaving, Sherlock stomped over to his bedroom door once more and yanked it open.

"AND STOP BUGGING MY ROOM!" he added before closing again, this time hard enough to shake the pictures adjourning the hall.

Stepping over the books and papers that now covered the hardwood floor, Sherlock reached his bed, which was surprisingly neat considering the chaos of the room, and promptly flopped down onto its surface. He had a lot to think over, as much had occurred in just the last few hours. Had it really been so little time for everything to change so much?

Sherlock had come home from school, his last day of sixth form before having to take his A-levels, when bloody _Mycroft _announced that their father had decided to send him to a military run university to "train the rebellion out of Sherlock". This obviously led to a loud discussion between Sherlock and Mycroft, more like a yelling match with no listening, which ended with Sherlock doing the unthinkable: interrupting Father during working hours.

William Scott Holmes was by no means a bad father. He was simply a busy one. After his wife Mariela passed, William remained as involved with his children as he would have been beforehand. He made an effort to appear at all the school related gatherings, rehearsals and plays and the like, and certainly carried conversation during dinner, but still kept his work high on the priority list. This meant an empty table in the morning and at lunch with quiet evenings, excluding holidays.

At one point Mycroft questioned his decision to allow the two of them so much freedom. William almost instantly reassured that he felt that Mycroft and Sherlock were both intelligent and capable enough to handle themselves and that if they ever do need help or advice that he would happily give it to them. Outside of working hours, most especially 2-4 in the afternoon and just after tea.

So roundabout 3:30 in the afternoon, Sherlock barged into the library and sped his way over to his father's office. He paused there, just for a moment, before shaking his head slightly and knocking once then simply barging in.

His father was seated at a large wooden desk, a portrait of his mother hanging just behind him. When Sherlock entered, William Scott Holmes stopped midsentence, freezing momentarily, before clearing his throat and sighing.

"I apologize, Haidar, but I shall have to call you back," he spoke calmly into the phone he held at his ear. "Another matter has arisen that needs my immediate attention. Ila-liqaa'." With that, William put the back phone back on the hook, tugging at the cord to ensure it wasn't tangled. He did not speak, only softly hummed to himself whilst shuffling about papers. William continued on as if Sherlock wasn't even standing in the room.

Finally Sherlock couldn't take the growing tension. "Is it true, what Mycroft said?" he blurted, clenching his hands at his side.

William sniffed a bit and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap and looking up at Sherlock for first time since hanging up the phone. And remained silent.

"Are you sending me to a ... a _military_ school?!" Sherlock continued, waving his hand as he stuttered over the accusation.

William sighed heavily, tilting his head back slightly. "I warned Mycroft not to tell you of the decision till all the papers were finalized," he muttered. Sherlock froze at the condemning statement. "How will that boy ever get far into politics if he doesn't know when to hold his tongue?"

Sherlock slammed his hands on William's desk. "What have I done to deserve this _abandonment _to such a facility?!" he demanded.

"What have you done?" William repeated softly. "Well let's begin with the skipping classes. Or maybe we could talk about your sneaking out at night. Perhaps we should mention your _smoking habit!_" Sherlock flinched slightly at each word, but held his father's gaze. "Son," William sighed, "you're throwing your life away. You're wasting time that could be used to better your talents and hone your skills to mess around with a bunch of delinquents and ignore your studies."

Sherlock frowned. "My friends aren't delinquents."

"Friends?" William laughed harshly. "These fools aren't your friends. They don't like you. They don't think you're clever. They find you annoying and rude."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide with each accusation. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. But the seed of doubt had been buried and thinking back Sherlock began to see tightness around their eyes that indicated irritation, the clenched fists, and the fake smiles.

"Sherlock. You have a gift. Your deductions are extraordinary and deserve that sort of recognition," William said, laying his hand on his son's shoulder. While he was talking he had stood and walked around the desk. "I am sending you to this school for your betterment. You won't go far if you keep acting out. It is what is best."

Sherlock took a step back, shrugging his father's hand off his shoulder. He didn't say anything, he didn't need to. His eyes looked his father up and down and saw all he needed to see. There was nothing Sherlock could say that would change William's mind. There was nothing Sherlock could do to avoid this imprisonment. He ran from the room.

Out in the hallway Mycroft stood, hands folded behind his back. "I told you not to bother him, brother."

Sherlock felt the despair that had settled in his chest quickly boil into the rage that left Sherlock staring at the perfectly painted ceiling above his bed.

Turning and punching his pillow, Sherlock swallowed the bitter tears that threatened to escape. Tomorrow he would begin taking suppressants, a requirement of the university. At the moment, Sherlock had no control over his enrollment. His father had signed the papers and until he graduated, Sherlock was stuck there.

Unless he got expelled…

**(A/N: Hi, me again. I'm sorry if this bored you. It actually has a bit more plot than I was anticipating, but I think that's a pretty good way to go about my first time [even if it's horribly cliché and overused]. :) Anyways, the idea for this particular biology is mostly due to two stories: **_**Built for it **_**(original or Lolita mix)****and**_** The Baker Street Dozen **_**(don't see all of it here, it will come later into play)**_**.**_** They're on AO3 at the very least, so if this interests you a bit, you might like those as well. *shrugs* Do what you do. It's your life.**

**Anyways, thanks for reading, I congratulate you on getting this far honestly, and I hope you read the next chapter. :) Review if you'd like. Thanks.)**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock frowned at the, now, burnt ceiling of his dorm room. So far he had antagonized each teacher, student, and janitor on campus. Within two minutes of meeting his roommate, he had sent the poor sod running out red faced and towing his still-packed bags behind him. Sherlock had smoked everywhere he could possibly think of: classrooms, hallways, bathrooms, dorm rooms, and even the bloody roof. He had stopped showing up to classes after the third day. He had just _purposefully _blown up an experiment to damage the room itself.

And all he got were demerits that led to detentions that he didn't even go to. Yet no other disciplinary actions were taken.

Sherlock couldn't fathom what caused the lack of repercussions, but obviously he had to do something more drastic. The next logical step was drugs. Getting the cigarettes on campus is difficult enough. Sherlock had to remember to ask his supplier when he saw him next. Sherlock spent the following hours contemplating the choices and deciding which ones would least affect his intellect.

His last thought before falling asleep was, _At least thinking of ways to break the rules is entertaining._

* * *

Five months, three weeks, two days, and forty-five minutes later Sherlock realised that he wasn't going anywhere. He had begun the drug "habit" two months prior and, despite showing up to meals and classes and assemblies and tests higher than a flying jet, had yet to meet any sort of punishment. The very fact that he put so much effort in to receive no response was irritating beyond belief.

After talking with his cigarette dealer, Sherlock was directed to someone in the nearby town. Unfortunately, he had to wait before being able to see the man because the next free weekend wasn't till the next month. And then of course it took a great deal of work to figure what Sherlock was going to take, especially considering he didn't want to damage his brain or inhibit its functions, and how to get it on campus. The latter became the larger issue as the school took care to screen all incoming packages and items brought onto the grounds.

Enlisting the help of a few homeless children quickly solved that problem. Sherlock had run into a small child who tried, and failed, to lift his wallet unnoticed. The poor thing had burst into tears the second Sherlock confirmed their guilt, but instead of reporting them to the coppers, he had instead asked to speak to their friends. Eventually he made his way to the leader of the small pack of children, a teenager aged about fourteen who preferred the name Shezza. Sherlock instantly saw potential and struck up a business deal involving the smuggling of drugs onto school grounds as well as information gathering.

In any case, Sherlock was now feeling the effects of cocaine, his current favorite, and rage as he _finally _realised why he hadn't been expelled yet.

"Mycroft."

* * *

The elder Holmes listened as his little brother ranted endlessly. Mycroft had received a call about five minutes ago with the assurance that it was urgent. Sighing with deep regret, he agreed to take it. And regret he did.

"_You _utter _arsehole!_" The first exclamation almost blew out Mycroft's eardrums. "_You know I don't want to be here and yet you _ensure_ that I remain?" _Sherlock was beyond furious. Anger had always been a strong emotion for Sherlock, even when he grew older, but this was a level he hadn't reached before. Mycroft suspected that his brother's recent drug habit was to blame. "_Everyone here is an idiot and these damned pills are making me nauseous."_

"Well if you didn't try and mix them with a daily dose of benzoylmethylecgonine..." Mycroft had allowed the statement to hang, open ended. "And how do you know that they're _all _idiots? You never attend class." From there Sherlock yelled in his ear for several minutes. Throughout the entire exchange, Mycroft made sure to keep his voice even and polite. Despite it technically being a personal, it was indeed a matter of urgency and so any way to ensure the continuation of the conversation was used.

"_Mycroft!" _Sherlock snapped. "_I need to be expelled! My brain is rotting from disuse. I have run out of options. You need to release the dean from whatever trap you have put him in and allow the man to _punish me!"

Mycroft gave a soft chuckle. "Brother dear, if you were paying any attention, you would know that the dean is female." Sherlock made an aggravated noise. "But perhaps I should, you are sounding more and more like the commonwealth."

Sherlock practically growled. "_Mycroft. There is nothing at this school that interests me._" Mycroft fought the urge to smile. Now they were getting to the crux of the issue. "_All of the classes are military, politics, or business. Nothing for science like chemistry or forensics._"

"I'm almost positive that they have a bomb squad introductory course," Mycroft began, allowing a small smirk. "There's bound to be _some _chemistry involved in that."

"_For God's sake,_" Sherlock muttered. Mycroft could hear Sherlock's breathing grow faint as the receiver moved away from his mouth.

"Oh, fine!" Mycroft called out, grabbing Sherlock's attention once more. "What school would you prefer?"

"_I honestly don't care,_" Sherlock retorted. "_Just as long as it has an applicable science programme and both chemistry and forensics class." _A small pause. "_And the teachers can't be boring. I'd request that neither they nor the students were idiots, but I don't think even Father could manage that." _

Mycroft mulled it over for a moment. Letting Sherlock get expelled was the easy part. William Scott Holmes, on the other hand, was just about as stubborn as Sherlock, if not more so. He _could _possibly sway Father's thoughts on the matter, given enough material to work with. "I'll try, but you have to promise to remain on the suppressants. And you must agree to cease your self-medication and attend rehabilitation to remedy your drug problem."

There was a long pause and Mycroft almost believed he had lost when Sherlock muttered, "_Fine. And I do not have a drug _problem," before hanging up.

Sighing, Mycroft lowered the receiver onto the base and handed it back to his most recent assistant. So far not one has lasted more than a month, apparently the workload was overstressing, but this one seemed to be handling herself well. She took it with a small nod of the head and walked away. Mycroft watched her go. _Yes, very well indeed…_

Focusing back on the matter at hand, Mycroft frowned. Convincing Sherlock had been the easy part. Getting Father to agree was going to be difficult.

**(A/N: So this be the second chapter. I like to write so I shall, no matter what the response is. Still. It was a nice response. :) Thank you to all who reviewed and I hope to hear from all of you again. :) I'm not sure if you've reviewed on anything else myself or Raxi has written, but we always do our best to respond. If you're a guest, we answer in the ending author's note of the next chapter. This is a great big pain in the ass for oneshots. Anyways, review if you wanna, but it would be much appreciated.**

**NOTE: benzoylmethylecgonine is the chemical name for cocaine. I learnt it on google.) **


	3. Chapter 3

**(A/N: Thank you all for your continued support. Right now the time skips are going to be a bit extensive as I try to get our characters ready for their meeting. I hope I'm not boring you and I appreciate you taking the time to read this at all. :) Enjoy.)**

Saint Bartholomew's Hospital was definitely turning out to be the right choice and John was happily reveling in it. It was the perfect setup: John signs up for the army, receives _complimentary_ but compulsory suppressants, lets the army pay for his classes, and then John gets to spend his days helping save lives. It was honestly all John had ever wanted out of life.

Initially when John's friend had suggested the army, John had been a bit skeptical. He didn't see how joining the Queen's Army would do him any good. But then he learned about the free ride and he was half convinced. It was the suppressants that secured his decision. John had always hated the control on him biology wielded. He despised the feeling of overwhelming desire that occurred a couple times a year and envied the betas who never had to experience neither heat nor rut. The worst they had were periods and that was only the females and eventually that ended too. Ruts and heats would occur like clockwork each year until the Alpha or Omega died.

And the last thing John wanted was for some damned sexual drive to control his life. So he gladly took the suppressants.

In any case, Saint Bart's was an excellent educational environment that provided hands-on experience and professors who had worked in their field. John grew to love the aging halls and would spend hours just sitting in the library, reading through large tomes containing all sorts of information on biology, anatomy, physiology, and so forth. John took advantage of this place of higher learning and absorbed as much as he could in the short time he was there.

His family had always struggled financially, his parents being betas, and so John and his sister hadn't always received the best education. Harry didn't really care either way, but John always felt that he was missing out on something and itched to learn more. Unfortunately none of his other classmates felt he same and John never felt comfortable exploring the meager library alone. At least not until he realised that his life was his own and he wasn't going to let anyone else's opinion get in the way of his future.

It took hard work and dedication for John to achieve his A levels and he boasted his success to his friends. Oddly enough his friends didn't celebrate with him and John hadn't seen them since. But there wasn't that much to miss, so John soldiered on.

However, as graduation drew nearer, John began to wonder the extent of the situation he had put himself into. He was going to go overseas. To war. And death. And destruction. John spent the last month or so staying up late, staring at the ceiling of his shabby flat, and contemplating the loss he was undoubtedly going to face. It didn't really sink in until John received his summons to the training camp that would take the fresh-faced graduates and spit out soldiers ready for action.

John spent that night in unrest, dreaming about a darkness that relentlessly chased him through the streets of London, across the dark waves, and over the high dunes of the desert.

* * *

Training itself wasn't all too bad, in John's opinion. The consistency within their schedule, the rhythmic shrieks of the instructors' whistles, and the resulting burn from the rigorous workouts left John feeling satisfied by the end of the day. He had always enjoyed symmetry in his life and found great joy in the predictable patterns. While a good number of trainees, that John knew for sure to be Alphas, slowly crawled into bed each night, moaning and groaning about their sores and aches and pains, John simply tucked himself beneath the covers and let a feeling of _achievement_ wash over him.

And then he would wake the next day at sunrise, roll out of bed, and take the scheduled jog at his usual brusque pace.

Those early morning runs probably were his favorite time of the day, second only to the sparring matches. The sound of feet hitting against already packed earth in a simple, steady stride and the taste of crisp morning air coupled with the cool breeze that helped carry John through the dim morning light was both calming and exhilarating. Hands down the best way to wake up John had experienced so far. Not that the other trainees would agree.

Generally speaking, John could identify the Alphas, Betas, and Omegas by their habits and how loudly they complain. Alphas tend to be loud and easily upset, so used to being treated like God's gift to Earth and unused to actually working; Alphas came by their muscle mass naturally, but with the suppressants, they had to actually work out to keep up their strength. Betas took the training about as well as John, some looking at the struggle philosophically and others whinging like children. Omegas were probably the most difficult to single out. They could range from excited to be doing _something_ for a change to being worse than the Alphas. Of all three sexes, Omegas were the rarest and tended to be pampered and spoilt rotten.

However there were always a few surprises in the mix. John assumed one trainee to be a Beta by how unaffected he appeared, but, as it turned out, Bill Murray was an Alpha. When admitted this, Bill just laughed and clapped a large hand on John's shoulder. They became fast friends soon after. Another instance of incorrect assumptions blooming into friendship was with a woman named Amelia McFergus, a tall, lean woman with an alarming amount of freckles and shockingly red hair. For all intents and purposes, the woman was every bit thickheaded Alpha as Bill. However when John gathered the guts to broach the subject, Emily simply laughed and proclaimed that the dull ache left from the workouts was nothing compared to heats and didn't even sneeze at childbirth.

They were an odd trio, John, Bill, and Emily, but they were the best of their class and ended up being deployed together in the same squad. This pleased John to no end. He had always had problems making friends, probably the fault of a traumatic experience in John's childhood, so he tried to keep the ones he did make close to his chest. Unfortunately that isn't always enough.

Sure, they were together, but that meant they fought together and bled together and fell together.

* * *

Sherlock sighed as he leaned back into the cushioned chair. This was the fifth time this month Mycroft had failed to check in. Normally Sherlock wouldn't be bothered, in fact he'd probably rejoice in the fact, but instead of coming himself, Mycroft had chosen to send his most recent assistant. She had an odd habit of checking in as a different person each time, changing her name and voice and outfit and the way she did her makeup and hair. It was an intriguing exercise for Sherlock to see if he could pick her out of the crowd. More often than not, he couldn't. Mycroft definitely knew how to pick them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed again as an aged woman wearing a horridly floral ensemble plopped down into the seat opposite. He slowly leaned forward, placing his feet on the ground and bracing himself on the table. "Who are we today, then?" Sherlock asked, quirking a brow.

The woman tilted her large hat back to reveal surprisingly young eyes. "Today my name is Agatha," the woman, Agatha, croaked. Sherlock fought off the urge to roll his eyes and the surge of appreciation for Agatha's dedication to the role. "You know what we need to do." Sherlock nodded and lowered his forehead onto the cool table. "All right then. Any changes?"

"I am still taking my daily regimen. I am attending all therapy sessions," Sherlock recited, his voice muffled through the hoodie he was wearing. "I have not gotten into too much trouble. They only needed to call the orderlies in once and it was to drag away a methamphetamine addict who was forced here by the government." Sherlock chuckled slightly. "Sounds familiar." Agatha said nothing, only took rapid notes into the notebook she always kept on her person. Sherlock peeked over his arms.

Agatha wasn't unattractive, from an objective standing, but for some reason her curves and large eyes and plump lips did nothing for Sherlock's interests. He had been noticing this pattern for a while, but it wasn't till being admitted and _forced_ to attend the group therapy sessions did Sherlock realise there might be a reason for it. There was a wide variety of people attending the meetings and at least four of them were there because their family thought their sexual preference made them mentally ill. _Well being sexually and emotionally attracted to fake house plants certainly wasn't normal, _Sherlock mused, _but nothing is wrong with a man wanting a man or a woman wanting a woman._

Sherlock sighed and shifted slightly, drawing a hand to rest on the curve of his neck, hidden by the hood. He felt like he should tell _someone _his recent personal discovery. The therapist would probably think of it as a negative development, so he was not going to hear a peep. Agatha was the next best thing. She might tell Mycroft, Sherlock shuddered thinking of how his brother would react, but Sherlock still suspected that Agatha was the best choice.

"A-Agatha…" Sherlock began, uncertain. She paused, looking up from her notepad the first time since Sherlock began speaking. "I think I may be… Well I'm pretty sure that…" Sherlock paused, feeling the confession settle heavily on his tongue. Why was this affecting him so? Sherlock half blamed the antidepressants and antipsychotics they had him on, but partially suspected that for the first time since Redbeard he was opening his mind to his heart. Better get it over with. "I am gay," he finally choked out.

Agatha watched Sherlock a moment longer, her eyes roaming his face as if trying to find the deceit, but soon her face softened and Sherlock felt like he was seeing her for the first time. She slowly closed her notebook and set it to the side before folding her hands in front of her.

"What brought this on?" Agatha asked softly, no judgment in her eyes or smile. Sherlock shook his head, rubbing his nose on the soft fabric of his sleeve, before tucking his chin against his chest, hiding his face again. "Sherlock?" The man made no move to respond. Agatha sighed. There was a pregnant pause. "Some days I like being a woman; other days I like being a man. That's why I tend to … dress in disguise." Sherlock froze, listening carefully. He remembered her coming a few times as someone obviously male. It was during the early days when he was only allowed one or two visits per month and he refused to talk to her at all. "I know what it's like to be different." Agatha reached out a hand and gently gripped Sherlock's arm. "I know what it's like to be unsure. And I know the freeing joy of finally accepting who you are." Sherlock slowly lifted his head and looked into the open, grey eyes. "So what brought this on?"

Sherlock swallowed and lifted himself to his full height. With a shaking hand, he pulled back the hood to reveal a shaved head; where long, thick, curling locks once hung now lay peach fuzz. "That meth addict?" Agatha nodded. "His name is Stewart. Two days ago in the commons, he approached me." Sherlock paused again, swallowing and focusing on his hands clenched before him on the table. "I was sitting at a chess board playing through some of the game's more memorable matches and improving the play. Stewart had no qualms interrupting. He was very blunt, to-the-point in the matter. Just sat down in front of me and unceremoniously announced to every person present that he quote-unquote, 'Fancied me,'" Sherlock sneered, imitating quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

"I handled the situation as I normally would've if someone had disturbed my game of chess," Sherlock continued after a moment, crossing his arms once more. "I quickly and efficiently deduced his entire life story to the crowd. I'll admit I probably did it a touch more maliciously than normal," he added almost as an afterthought. "In any case, Stewart reacted accordingly and threatened to 'tear my pretty little eyes out'." Sherlock paused again, running one hand against the thin layer of hair that remained. He noticed that Agatha had yet to continue writing in her notebook. "Stewart managed to get a solid hold on my hair before the orderlies intervened. His grip was so strong that they had to cut clumps out to free me." Sherlock gave a harsh laugh. "Consequentially my 'long hair' was considered a 'safety hazard' and they trimmed it accordingly."

Agatha watched Sherlock as he stared unseeingly at some point over her shoulder. She hadn't known Mr. Holmes or his brother for very long and while they were obviously brothers, they were so different from each other. However, one consistency she'd noticed between the two of them is their lack of communication. Sherlock here had no issue with telling you just what he thought of you, but never seemed to talk about how he felt. Mr. Holmes was much more tight-lipped. He would barely broach the subject of feelings or emotions and usually it was to repeat what must be his personal motto: caring is not an advantage. Having Sherlock open up like this was both a touch unsettling and wonderfully refreshing.

She would gladly hear the rest of his story, especially if it helps Sherlock in the end. "So what does this have to do with you being gay?" Agatha asked, leaning forward. Sherlock seemed to pull out of his daze and blinked owlishly at her. The lack of dark locks made his eyes seem larger than usual.

"Right…" Sherlock mumbled, pulling his gaze down to the table. A frown tugged at his lips. "Stewart's confession made me think. I had never experienced any sort of desire to date or kiss or copulate with the opposite gender. There was one time in primary school, I believe I was eight, a girl confessed to liking me and pecked me on the cheek. At the time it seemed to be a big deal to the other boys, completely disgusting apparently, but I felt nothing but indifference. As the boys grew, so did their interest in girls. I never experienced such a change. My indifference neither increased nor diminished.

"But then I was in secondary school. We had physical education and afterwards the boys would always shower. One day I caught myself looking and tried to make myself stop." Sherlock swallowed. "Then one day I was caught looking." He shut his eyes and hid his head between his arms again. Agatha grimaced in empathy. She remembered going through her own public shaming. School, private or not, was a cesspool of cruel children and adolescents ready to attack anything that was different or made them uncomfortable. After a minute or two, Sherlock inhaled deeply and continued, his voice muffled by his arms. "I hid… emotionally. I locked it all away and never gave it a second thought. Until Stewart."

Agatha watched the young man as he wrestled with himself. This one conversation solidified her decision. For the last few visits, she had seen a marked improvement in Sherlock's temperament. He seemed more rested and well fed. Mr. Holmes trusted her judgment and was prepared to pull Sherlock out of the programme when she deemed him ready. The way Sherlock opened up, both to her and to himself, showed maturity and Agatha felt in her gut that they could trust him to abide by his side of the bargain.

She exhaled slowly and smiled. "I understand, Sherlock. And I am glad you told me this." Agatha leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Don't worry, Sherlock, your brother won't hear a word of this from me." Pulling back, she gathered her things and stood. "I'm sure you'll find plenty of time to tell him yourself next week." Sherlock's head snapped up. "I remember him saying something about showing you the school before settling you in."

All the air seemed to leave Sherlock in one great rush. A smile played at his lips. "So I've done it? I'm free?" Agatha nodded. "No more of this _blasted _medication?"

"All but the suppressants," Agatha confirmed with a smile.

A wide grin split Sherlock's face. "I'm glad to be rid of them either way; they dulled my senses. I feel half blind." He let out a small laugh. "Freedom." Agatha watched him as he began planning, his pale eyes flickering back and forth rapidly. "When?" His sudden question almost caused her to flinch. Almost.

Agatha glanced down at her notebook. "Sometime next week," she promised. "No later than Friday." Sherlock clapped his hands together and muttered 'excellent'. "And Sherlock," Agatha called, pulling him away from his musings once more. "Please don't disappoint me. I'm putting my faith in you." She fixed him with a pointed look before smiling and turning away. Waving over her shoulder she called, "Have a nice weekend," before letting herself out.

Sherlock stared at the recently vacated chair across from him. _Free at last, free at last,_ he thought with a smirk. Leaning back in his chair, Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets. In less than a week he would be on his way to a _proper _school where he might actually learn something. It will be well worth it, suppressants or not.

**(A/N: I feel like Anthea doesn't get enough personality or life in the show. I figured it would be useful for Mycroft's assistant to be a master of disguise, so why wouldn't she be genderfluid? Anyways, if Sherlock seems a bit… off, please remember in this chapter he is getting help and is on medication [and is still growing up. Kindof. He's in uni]. That tends to mess with people's behavioral patterns, but usually not so drastically. I hope I didn't warp him too much. At any rate, the plot should pick up in the next few chapters. Sorry for the slow updates and thanks for sticking with it. :)**

**Make sure to check out my new story ****_Obvious Really_****. Review if you want.)**


End file.
